


Mercy

by valcaines



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Action, Angst, Blood and Gore, F/M, Multi, Reader Insert, Romance, Slow Burn, Violence, first-person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:38:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8783461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valcaines/pseuds/valcaines
Summary: In a dog-eat-dog world of sliced throats and broken bones in exchange for primal survival, begging for mercy should have been the very last resort.
(Joel x Reader)





	1. Midsummer Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, this is my first ever work on here. I sincerely hope that you enjoy it.

The world had to crumble down somehow. Matter of fact, you were pretty sure or at least hoping from the depths of your soul that someday, just that one very mighty fine day -whenever and however that may be- you wouldn't have to weakly attempt to hustle through your nine-to-five desk job, rush due trade deal papers minutes before the deadline which was set months ago or wake up in the middle of the starry night upon your respectful neighbors raising all hell loose doing Lord knows what. You pondered maybe, just maybe, that someday, it would all come to a halt, a peaceful one at that. It was a thought of yours that once all the stress and chaos was shooed out of your ordinary life, you would finally have room to just unwind. Begging for mercy on your way to a desired admission into heaven. Tending livestock in the countryside during your anticipated afterlife if there ever was one.

Might as well admit that you were right, well, partially right in your foretelling. Partially, because, see, initially, you used to be somewhat optimistic about this supposed nearing end of the world and about what would be its' probable triggers. The former possibilities and your well-developed future scenarios could either involve your demise, moving out into the country and living the quite desirable ranch life or simply, in some other cases, quitting your tedious job. The cursed infection brought by a wretched type of mushroom had certainly never been a runner-up in your list.

The darkness was commencing to evolve into being more and more decipherable and see-through as your worn out orbs became gradually acquainted. You scoffed to yourself, with nobody to hear it besides the clicking and scratching and groaning creatures just outside wooden door a few feet away from the cement wall against which you previously collapsed. The dark grey dust and muck got stuck in and onto your unpolished, dirty and grimy leather combat boots you had found during a raid back in an abandoned house around the state border. They had been so shiny and well-kept that you could clearly make out your reflection on the black patent leather, one of the rare occasions that helped remind you how you looked like, how you used to look like before the dried blood of yours and others on your skin, greasy, unkempt hair and various little battle cuts and bruises here and there replaced your radiant natural glow. You chuckled while shaking your head, in both nostalgia and at your pathetic state as these thoughts ran through your mind, trembling and bubbling. Reminiscing about the good old past and getting lost within haunting, yet living, vivid memories were not what you should have been doing at the very moment. Instead, you had to find a way out of this crumbling downtown skyscraper, out of the office room in the 7th floor you got trapped in, considering a bleeding hole in your leg and the Clicker hoard scraping at the thick (thank God) wooden door not exactly increasing your chances of survival. 

It had been no bite, no, none of that fucking nonsense. You'd be real quick and efficient in putting a well-deserved bullet for your idiocy into your skull, if that was the case. In a world full of endless gruesome possibilities for one's demise, as a hardened survivor who had supposedly seen it all, it would be a petty and humiliating way to wrap your living soul up by a damned bite. No, this stupid God-forsaken burden of a wound, all wrapped up thanks to your best attempts at making a nice tourniquet out of the fabric you tore out of your shirt with your teeth, came from a worthless of a hunter already camped down inside the building you had sneaked into for supplies and who, by pure blind luck or his real bad ineptness at aiming, missed your precious head and put a bullet through your left thigh. The dark, crimson liquid seeped through your fingers as you hissed, taking in a few sharp breaths as your head was arched back slightly, eyebrows furrowed. How long did you have to wait in order for the blood loss to be fatal to save you the thrill of getting torn apart from your ribs? It was a question you had been calculating the answer for when you heard the wide, square glass window shatter to pieces on the far left corner of the room, letting in the moonlight and the stars of a late Boston midsummer night.

Panic rushed through and waves of anxiety traveled from top to bottom. Your thigh throbbed in protest, blood still finding its way through the tight makeshift bandage and reddening the cracked linoleum flooring. If the all forsaken infected had found a way to climb on buildings, even buildings made of glass with no visible crevice or parapet to hold onto, then the remaining survivors were doomed all to hell. You shouldn’t be so lucky to be dying of fucking blood loss right over there.  
  
Footsteps, and pants, both heavy, originating from a grand, vast silhouette in the dark, near the window that was just blasted. Your head arched back, your neck exposed as the veins on the side bulged prominently. Teeth gritted, jaw locked tight, eyes pressed shut. The scratches and shrieks behind the door growing louder and higher. One hand over your wound, the other curled up in an iron-clad fist. Exposing much skin, especially your neck, the glorious body part the infected loved to feast on. Your sole intention, as the pants and footsteps so heavy that could only belong to a turned individual approached, was to get this whole nasty ordeal over and done with. Presenting yourself to the creatures that you had sworn would not get a hold of you indicated the collapse, the destruction and the demolition, just like those wrecking balls crashing to a tenement building, of your walls that once presented damaged morality and scarred principles.  
  
It was only after you were abruptly hauled up to a stand out of your state of resignation by a strong, fierce and controlling hand did you realize the wound in your thigh had been no joke. A loud scream escaping your lips. Then came the relieving darkness, engulfing your being, your motionless and limp body pulled down by the mighty gravity before landing in a pair of arms.  



	2. Kindness

The coldness of the pistol barrel against your cheek wasn’t the wake-up call you expected. 

“One fucking move.”

The gun croaked as it’s safety was pulled back swiftly. 

Your eyelids struggled to reveal the rotten cement room littered with years’ worth of dust and grime on the crumbling walls, and the dark haired gruff man crouched dangerously facing you.

Even your primitive survival instinct took its sweet time kicking in, considering you’d lost a damned good amount of blood. It was what seemed like minutes later that your breathing increased in pace and your vision became clearer and able to focus on the man’s clenched jaw under all that peppered, dark beard, noir eyes piercing and daunting in their stare. 

“That a bite?” the man grunted, and the pressure of the barrel against your cheek increased.

Blinking multiple times, your head was wearily tilted upwards to get a better look at him. Surprisingly, you found yourself wishing that your answer to that dreaded question had been a yes. The loaded gun against your cheek, a deep wound in your thigh… You were already a walking dead. Couple hours of unconsciousness nor the intimidating presence of this stranger didn’t do so much to change that. 

“It ain’t no bite,” you find yourself mumbling to the man, whose grip on the handgun barely softened, still hard enough to be sending pumps of adrenaline through your veins. His dark gaze focused into your disoriented one, searching confirmation in the hue of your eyes. 

He seemed to have found it, you assumed partly in relief, when he stood up with a grunt, now towering over you like a skyscraper, and switched the safety back on as he tucked the gun into his belt. 

The early rays of daylight coming in from the broken window illuminated his features as he scanned the room. It was at that moment of brief recuperation that pieces of memories began to inundate your mind. Last you recalled, you had your back against a wall just like this, yet blood was seeping through your fingers and broken nails were scraping on the door. Your eyes lowered in their gaze towards your now tightly bandaged wound.  


“Left some gauze case you need it,” the man grumbled with a deep drawl as he shifted his heavy-looking backpack over his broad, flannel-covered shoulders, getting ready to leave, delivering you to the hands of faith.

This type of kindness was hard to find in this newly upgraded version of the world. Attempting to rescue people was playing a high-stake poker game with an ugly hand. You knew, he knew, every damn survivor in this doom knew tag-alongs often proved to be worthless liabilities, possibly catalyzing the process of inevitable demise. That would be the reason he had given you the bare minimum of what you needed, and now was on his way out of there. You couldn’t be more grateful. 

Mouth parting open slightly in a meek attempt to voice your gratitude, you were cut off by the whipping sound of a bullet passing through the broken glass and hitting point blank on the far wall with a loud thud. 

The projectile missing his head with a seconds-worth of luck and minimal error, the giant of a man was quick, despite his build, to lean against the wall beside you. His pistol in his hands, cocked up and ready, the sounds of your panting mixed in with his deep breathing. 

“Goddamn hunters,” he spoke, rushed, his words breathy. 

Heart threatening to thump out of your chest, your chest rising and falling in pants, eyes wide and chapped lips parted, a tingle of pain running through your wound upon his words. If you couldn’t handle a single, inept hunter while in that high-rise, how in the hell were you supposed to handle a pack with reasonably decent aiming skills all alone? Bets on, you probably wouldn’t be able to walk two steps without collapsing. How long had you been out, anyway?

His eyes then met yours. Those stern, stranger orbs piercing into your helpless gaze.

You had raided houses, took whatever you needed, killed whoever came into your way, or tried to cross you. Mindlessly tortured. Popped kneecaps and fingernails in exchange for information. Mercilessly slit throats for your own safety and welfare. 

And yet, in that moment, you were the one dying. With all of what’s left of your heart, you wished you had delivered your soul back in that high-rise. Instead, you had become the desperate one in need of help, a guiding hand. Never in your post-Cordyceps adventure did you ever think you’d fall dependent. 

The realization alone made your eyes water. 

Another bullet whipped the air, traveled across the empty room and got stuck in the far wall next to the first one, making crumbling pieces of cement dust down.  


The walls trembled in impact, the vibrations traveling through your broken body, sending jolts of fear.

A tear rolled down your cheeks, making the dried blood glisten. 

You couldn’t blame him in the slightest. He had apparently carried you over to this initially safe location, treated much as he could to your wound, even left over some extra supplies. He was either an utter, complete, selfless idiot, or one of those handful of survivors with an ounce of kindness left in their battered souls. Leaving you alone to your faith under the blind fire would be the wise thing to do. Hell, you would have done it, without even glancing back. Obeying pleas for mercy, even the subtly-put, was not in your book of survival.

It seemed to be in his, you thought, when he hunched down while mumbling under his breath, to wrap an arm around your shoulders, helping you up on your feet to find your clumsy balance, dragging you out of the reticule’s sight and towards a back door exit.


End file.
